


Look At Me

by swimsalot



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Attempted Murder, Established Relationship, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-11
Updated: 2013-02-11
Packaged: 2017-11-28 23:56:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/680325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swimsalot/pseuds/swimsalot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John finds out Sherlock is still alive but Sherlock won't even look at him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Look At Me

Sherlock, a little friend of yours stopped by - JM  
  
  
  
What have you done this time? -SH  
  
  
  
Well, he just stopped by to... chat - JM  
  
  
  
Do I bother asking who? -SH  
  
  
  
Let's see you guess - JM  
  
  
  
Please tell me it's Mycroft. -SH  
  
  
  
Wrong! - JM  
  
  
  
Of course not. I should be so lucky. -SH  
  
  
  
When do you think you'll pick him up? I just want to be ready - JM  
  
  
  
You're going to just let him go? I don't buy it. -SH  
  
  
  
Thats why I said I want to be ready. - JM  
  
  
  
Doesn't this get old? The same old jog around the track? Why not, just once, kidnap  
  
Anderson? Just to shake things up? -SH  
  
  
  
I guess I should... This time, you have ten minutes or his brains are my new wallpaper. –  
  
JM  
  
  
  
Ten minutes to what? -SH  
  
  
  
Get here. My apartment. He's crying. He still thinks you're dead - JM  
  
  
  
God damn you. I'm already on my way. Don't touch him. -SH  
  
  
  
Jim smiled and put the phone in his pocket. He held his gun towards John, who was forced with his back into a corner and his hands folded behind his head.  
  
  
  
John couldn't believe it, or rather, wouldn't believe it. No matter what Moriarty said to the contrary, he had seen Sherlock die. He had seen the body, broken and bleeding on the cold ground. He had been to the funeral. Sherlock was dead.  
  
But he couldn't completely quell the feeling of hope that started to bubble up inside him. He had prayed for it to be a mistake somehow. How many nights had he lain awake, begging the universe to bring him back? And if Moriarty was still alive...  
  
But no. Sherlock was dead. He had to be. Even he wouldn't be so cruel as to fake his death and leave John all on his own. He must have known he couldn't handle it.  
  
"Stop toying with me Jim and just kill me already." growled John, staring into the barrel of the gun.  
  
  
  
"Hmm, not yet." Jim grinned at the soldier, running his tongue across his lips. "I like to break my toys before I throw them away."  
  
  
  
The door to the apartment burst open a moment later - luckily Sherlock had enough sense to trace the call and find the address wasn't too far away. He all but kicked the door down, forgoing the door knob entirely.  
  
"I'm here." he said breathlessly, avoiding looking at John. He couldn't handle his accusatory stares. Or even worse, if his expression was one of fear. Disgust. Or disbelief, even. Sherlock couldn't handle it. He didn't want it to happen this way. He was going to return when he was good and ready.  
  
Not like this.  
No, never like this.  
  
  
  
"Well, isn't this just _fun!_ " Moriarty grinned like it was a surprise birthday party.  
  
  
  
A choked sob tore its way out of John's mouth before he could stop it. It was Sherlock. The real, very much alive, Sherlock. There was no mistaking the curly black hair or those piercing silver-blue eyes, or that deep voice that could make John shudder when he said something particularly biting. it was him, alive and in the flesh. John's best friend who had given him back his life only to snatch it away again the same time he took his own. He was here, close enough to touch if John had been able to move.  
  
  
And he wouldn't even look at him.  
  
  
  
Sherlock closed his eyes and hung his head for just a moment. "You must have had a reason for bringing me here." he said, still not looking in John's direction. "  
  
  
  
Jim picked up John roughly by the shoulder and threw him at Sherlock. "Just wanted to be there for the little reunion," he smiled.  
  
  
  
Sherlock caught John, but still refused to look at him. He wanted to shove him aside to face Moriarty, but the feel of John's body under his hands for the first time in three years made him falter and squeeze just a little tighter.  
  
"You really have been just so bored without me, haven't you?" Sherlock taunted, trying his best to assess whether Jim had backup based on his movements.  
  
  
  
There was nothing in the world John wanted more than to wrap his arms around Sherlock's thin body and hold him as tightly as he could. He wanted to squeeze him, to feel that beautiful form against him. But he was all too aware of the gun still pointed at him and at this range any shot that was fired would go right through him and hit Sherlock. He had been prepared for his death ever since Moriarty had picked him up but he couldn't stand to lose Sherlock again.  
  
  
So he kept his arms where they were and contented himself with simply leaning against the man and breathing in his familiar scent. He smelled like his favorite sandalwood soap, assorted chemicals and gun powder though now with the additional odor of cigarette smoke. He must have started up again. John found he didn't care. He didn't think it would have mattered even if Sherlock had gone back to all his old habits, even his reliance on cocaine to get him through the boring days. He had him back, and that was all that mattered.  
  
  
  
"You bet I've been bored. You've been so difficult to track down." Jim said, waving his gun around.  
  
  
  
"What's the _real_ reason you've brought me here?" Sherlock demanded, staring the gun down with no fear evident in his face.  
  
  
  
"I told you, I just wanted to see this happen." Moriarty laughed wickedly.  
  
  
  
Sherlock tightened his hands on John's shoulders, but still refused to look at him. "I don't know what you're expecting, Jim." he sneered. "John is adult enough to accept this newfound knowledge gracefully like the soldier he is. There won't be any crying, hugging or 'catching up.' All you've done is prematurely brought me back from the grave. There's nothing for you to enjoy, here."  
  
  
  
John wished he was as strong as Sherlock thought he was. He wished he could be the solid, steady soldier his friend expected him to be. Anything else would be exactly what Moriarty wanted. But his best friend had just risen from the grave and walked back into his arms. How was he supposed to _not_ react?  
  
  
And it was unfair for Sherlock to think he wouldn't! A small pocket of anger flared deep in John's belly, burning hot against the soft glow of happiness he had experienced when he saw Sherlock again. Did his friend really imagine that he could just wander back into his life and John wouldn't care? Did he really think John would just write it off as another one of Sherlock's little quirks and let it go?  
  
"I thought I'd lost you. You let me think you were dead." John whispered into his shoulder, the first words he had spoken since Sherlock had walked into the room. "You think that doesn't matter?"  
  
  
  
Sherlock's throat tightened, and he still didn't look down at John's face. He watched Moriarty's face instead, and more importantly, his gun.  
  
And then he finally spoke.  
  
"Shut up, John."  
  
  
  
Using the little bit of leverage he could, John pushed away from Sherlock so he was standing on his own two feet. He looked up at the detective's cold, pale face, and the anger he was feeling grew stronger when he still didn't look back at him.  
  
"Don't tell me to shut up! I've spent the last three years thinking you were dead and trying to come to terms with it and now that you're back all you can say is 'shut up'?" John yelled.  
  
  
  
Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock's gaze was still trained on Jim's gun.  
  
  
  
"You of all people should know, John, that I do everything for a reason." He snapped. "If you didn't believe that, you shouldn't have come back after that first case. Remember when you ran through the streets with me without your cane for the first time? Everything I do, I do for a reason. Now shut your mouth before you get a bullet in your head."  
  
  
  
"Maybe things would have been better if you had stayed dead." John muttered. Instantly he regretted it. He didn't want Sherlock to be dead; he never wanted Sherlock to be dead. When he had thought he had lost him the first time it had nearly ruined him. All the normality he had tried to restore during their years together had come crumbling down and he had realized just how much Sherlock had meant to him. He would never wish to lose him again. "I didn't mean that." John said quietly, barely resisting the urge to reach out and touch his friend.  
  
  
Sherlock still wouldn't look John in the face.  
  
  
  
"Is this what you're looking for, Jim? Some kind of stupid confrontation?" he snapped at the mass murderer, glaring at him fiercely.  
  
  
  
"Oh, alright. I guess I might as well reveal my _true intentions._ " Jim huffed dramatically.  
  
  
  
Two men came from behind the door and separated the detective and his blogger. They held them tightly as Jim said, "Come back out to the public. Show them you're alive."  
  
  
  
Sherlock's expression steeled. He was silent for a long moment, and didn't even bother struggling against the man that was quite obviously two and a half times his size. With his arms twisted behind himself, he dropped his head. For the longest time, he didn't speak. And then, finally,  
  
"No."  
  
  
  
"Oh for god's sake Sherlock!"  
  
John couldn't believe what he was hearing. He knew Sherlock could be stubborn and as he said "did everything for a reason" but it seemed so ridiculous now. Such a simple thing could set them free, could send them away from here with their lives. Assuming Jim was telling the truth which was fairly unlikely but it would at least keep them alive long enough to maybe formulate a plan. Why did Sherlock have to dig his heels in now, of all times?  
  
  
  
"It's a simple request. Listen to your doctor." Moriarty said with a smile.  
  
  
  
"I said no."  
  
  
  
His smile instantly turning into a scowl, Moriarty put the gun down. He sucked in his breath then nodded to the one holding Sherlock. From within his coat, the henchman produced a sharp knife and held it to Sherlock's throat. "Remember, death doesn't shake me. I killed myself once," he said, like a child proud of an accomplishment.  
  
  
  
"You can kill me if you like. That won't undo the work I've done." Sherlock said, a little more bravely than he felt as he lifted his head to look at Jim right in the eyes. Narrowing his own, he spoke, "You look tired, Jim."  
  
  
  
"Sherlock don't!" John pleaded, desperation bleeding into his voice. He couldn't stand to go through all that again. Another loss, another funeral. It would be too much for him. Especially when it could so easily be avoided. "Please Sherlock. You can't die on me again."  
  
  
  
"Stop it, John." Sherlock snapped at him. "I'm not undoing what I've done."  
  
  
  
"Well then, you clearly don't care about your life," Moriarty said, and snapped his fingers. The other henchman, still holding the struggling John, produced a similar knife to the other, and held it to John. "How about _his death?_ "  
  
  
  
Sherlock didn't look in John's direction. His expression was cold and burning at the same time. "I said _no_ , Jim." he spoke firmly. "I'm not playing your game. Kill me, kill him, kill us both, kill neither of us. You have four choices, but only have one decision to make. I'm not making it for you."  
  
  
  
John felt the hope seep out of him, leaving him weak and sagging in the brutish man's grip. Moriarty didn't need to kill him, his heart had stopped of its own volition at Sherlock's words. He would have done anything to protect Sherlock and once upon a time he had believed Sherlock would do the same for him.  
  
"If you're going to kill us just get it over with." John sighed, his eyes focused on the ground. Sherlock might be back but it hardly mattered now. He had let him down and they were going to pay with their lives. _That's what you get for putting your faith in someone like Sherlock Holmes._  
  
  
  
"God, I HATE when you do this!" Moriarty screamed. He wheeled towards Sherlock, and stepped up, getting right in his face. There was a moment of silence before he said, "You can't even look at him." He backed away and smiled. "Obviously, he doesn't matter. Expendable. Moran, kill him,"  
  
  
  
Sherlock's brow furrowed, but he kept his eyes trained directly on Moriarty.  
  
"He's one person." his voice was quiet, broken. "I have work to do. Work that will affect the entire world. I cannot allow my feelings for one man to end all of that good work I've done. I cannot allow it to prevent me from continuing. The way I see it, there are only two ways out of this. Either you're going to kill me, in which case it won't matter if John's dead or not, because I will be. Or I'm going to get out of this alive, and I'll keep doing my work. I'll save millions of lives for every one you've taken. Nothing you can do will make me change my mind."  
  
He heard John's breath beside him and did his best to put it out of his mind. He couldn't stand the thought, but he spoke the truth.  
  
  
  
Tears started to well up in John's eyes but he held them back. Harder to control was the small hitch in his breath that came from repressed sobs. Just one man. That was all he was to Sherlock. Not his lover, not his friend, not even his assistant, just a man. He didn't matter in the grand scheme of things. He had probably thought it all out before he's even burst through the door, that was why he wouldn't look at him.  
  
  
The worst part of it was that he couldn't even be mad about it. Because Sherlock was right. If he came out of this room alive Sherlock would have to continue his work, no matter what else happened. John understood that, respected that. It still stung like a blow to the face but he knew it was the right thing to do.  
  
The only thing he had to console himself with was that Sherlock did still have feelings for him. He might not have said outright that he still loved him but he had said that his personal feelings didn't matter. John could be content with that.  
  
  
  
Twisting his face into an even deeper scowl, Jim spat, "Fine," in a half-angry tone of defeat. He put his head in his hand and said, "Moran, just get it over with."  
  
  
  
Nodding, Moran took the knife from John's throat and drove it directly into his stomach.  
  
Sherlock's eyes closed and he let out a small noise, his nostrils flaring as he took in a deep breath. He locked his knees to keep them from crumbling beneath him, and he tucked his chin close to his chest. Turning his head away from the sound of John's gasps, Sherlock felt hot tears well in his eyes. A burning lump raised in his throat. He swallowed dryly.  
  
"Are we done here?" he said once he trusted his voice to stop shaking.  
  
  
  
"S-sherlock..." John gasped, his arms wrapped tightly around his middle in a vain attempt to stop the flow of blood. He felt cold and was gradually going numb. He turned on the floor and looked up at Sherlock, the tears he had tried to hold in now flowing freely down his cheeks.  
  
  
"Pl-p-please...." he gasped. His teeth were chattering and his body started to shake. "Please jus-st look at me..."  
  
  
  
Sherlock did not look at John.  
  
  
  
Jim wrinkled his brow. There was a moment of silence. "Fine. Okay. We're done here. For now. And I'll even let you collect your pet if you want," he kicked John, who rolled over on the ground moaning. Moriarty snapped his fingers and the man let go of Sherlock. Both followed Jim out the door.  
  
  
  
Dropping instantly to his knees, Sherlock ripped his scarf from his neck and pressed it firmly against the wound. "Hold that." he barked at the man, lifting him from the ground. "You were marvelous. I'm sorry you had to get stabbed, but it was all part of the plan. You're going to be just fine, there's an ambulance downstairs."  
  
He lifted John off the ground, staggering a bit under his weight, and headed briskly for the door.  
  
  
  
"Sh-Sherlock stop." John coughed. He could taste blood in his mouth now and knew it was probably leaking down his chin. The wound was severe and if they didn't hurry it would be too late; but he needed to talk and if he didn't do it now he wasn't sure he would get the chance.  
  
  
  
"No." Sherlock said firmly as he made his way down the stairs as fast we he could manage while holding a dying man. He burst through the front doors only for John to see that Moriarty and his two henchmen were in the process of being bent over police cars and handcuffed. Medics ran up to Sherlock with a gurney and urged him to put the man over the cot.  
  
"Do-do not p-put me down Sher-Sherlock." John ordered as strongly as he could. He knew as soon as they got him inside the ambulance they were going to put him under to prepare for the surgery he needed. If Sherlock wasn't there when he came to he didn't think he would be able to stand it.  
  
  
  
"I have to." Sherlock said as he placed John on the cot. "But I'm coming with you. I'm not leaving. Not again."  
  
  
  
He followed the fast-moving gurney towards the ambulance, taking a strong hold of John's hand as the medics began to cut open the soldier's shirt to get at his injury.  
  
  
  
"Y-you promise..." John stammered. He could barely feel Sherlock's hand in his and he held it even tighter. "I d-don't want to...to l-lose you."  
  
  
He was getting tired which he knew probably wasn't a bad sign. He should stay awake, he ought to stay awake, but he couldn't. His eyelids were growing heavy and he struggled to keep them open.  
  
"Sher-sherlock. Look at me?"  
  
  
  
"Not yet, John." Sherlock's voice faded into a whisper as John lost consciousness.  
  
  
  
======================  
  
  
  
  
  
Hours passed. Foggy dreams filled the restless artificial sleep. John felt the pain of being stabbed over and over and over. He woke with a start.  
  
  
  
Silver eyes were gazing directly into his.  
  
  
  
They'd never looked so beautiful.  
  
  
  
A hand cupped John's cheek, and he was aware of the sudden discomfort of breathing tubs up his nose. "There's my tough soldier." Sherlock whispered, leaning down to kiss the bridge of the man's nose.  
  
  
  
"You, are an ass. But I love you." John sighed with a smile. When he could lift his arms he planned on smacking Sherlock as hard as he could across the cheek for all the pain he had caused him but for now… for now he was content to just sit there with him and revel in the joy of having his lover back.  
  
  
  
Sitting at the edge of the bed, Sherlock traced the line of John's face. "You've lost weight." He noted, pressing a few fingers to the soldier's side, where he could feel his rib cage. "Depression does tend to put a damper on one's appetite, I suppose." He smiled. However, his smile faded.  
  
  
  
Rubbing his eyes, he took in a deep breath through his nose. "I'm sorry I had to use you like this. I didn't anticipate you would get stabbed. But the plan succeeded. Moriarty and Moran are in custody."  
  
  
  
"I don't care." John sighed. He managed to lift his arm enough that Sherlock got the message and took his hand again. He knew he must be on some pretty heavy drugs to be so bogged down like this but he was grateful. He didn't feel even the fainest flicker of pain. That would be coming later and he knew it would be awful, but he didn't care about that either.  
  
  
"I wouldn't have cared if I had died." he continued. "You did the right thing, Sherlock. I'm proud of you. Even if you did break my heart seven or eight times."  
  
  
  
"Speaking of." He muttered, running his thumb over the back of John's hand and suddenly very interested in staring at the veins there. "I didn't mean it. What I said. Back in that room. You're not… you're not just one person. You're the only person… the only person in the whole world that I actually care about. Well, other than myself."  
  
  
  
John started to laugh but stopped when the first bolt of pain shot through his abdomen. Good drugs or not they couldn't completely block the agony that came with sudden movements after serious surgery.  
  
  
"Damn." he said, leaning even farther back into the pillows. "Sorry. I won't say I know you didn't mean it. It hurt more than I can tell you when you said it. But I believe you now. I feel the same. You mean more to me than anyone ever has."  
  
  
  
Wrinkling his nose, Sherlock looked away. His cheeks were tinted ever so slightly pink.  
  
"Nevermind all that. The point of all this is that Moriarty is under lock and key again, and this time they've finally put the bastard on death row."  
  
  
  
"Does that mean you're coming back? You're done now and you can come home?" John asked. He wanted it to be true so badly but he was scared. He didn't want to push Sherlock for too much. He could have another case. Or, and this one was the worst, he might have come to enjoy his new life. He made no secret of his hatred for all the fame John's blog had earned him. With everyone thinking he was dead he could move around more freely, without the constant fear of being recognized and swarmed by admirers.  
  
  
  
Sherlock sighed and hung his head, patting his palm over the back of John's hand.  
  
  
  
"No, John." He whispered, his eyes focused on the man's knuckles. They started to tremble. "No. I'm not coming back. Not yet."  
  
  
  
John turned his head so he didn't have to look at his friend. He could feel tears building up and he didn't want Sherlock to see him cry.  
  
  
  
"Will you?" he asked, his voice quiet and hollow.  
  
  
  
John's head snapped back around to his hand when he felt something slipped onto his finger. It was a silver band, unadorned, simple. "Relax, don't read too deep into it." Sherlock ran his thumb over the metal. "It's just a promise. I was going to give it to you when I finally came back. When my work was done. But I think you need it now."  
  
  
  
He took his hands away and began to fiddle with the ends of his scarf. "Of course I will come back. But you have to understand that I'm not on your schedule. It could take one year, it could take ten. I didn't want you to know I was alive… because I didn't want you waiting for me. But I suppose we're past that point. I'll keep in touch with you."  
  
  
  
"Thank you." John smiled, a little sadly. He tried to lift his hand to take Sherlock's again but found he could barely twitch it now. The drugs were starting to pull him back under and every muscle in his body felt like it weighed fifty pounds. He fought to stifle a yawn but couldn't keep in back. "Will you stay with me until I fall asleep?"  
  
"That won't take very long." Sherlock smiled weakly. "John… I won't be here when you wake up. You have to understand that."  
  
  
  
"I-I know that." John said through another yawn. A tear slipped past his lids and rolled down his face. "I think I can handle it. Just don't make me watch you leave again."  
  
  
  
Sherlock shook his head. He understood. Watching John slip into unconsciousness was a little unsettling, and he kept holding his own breath in order to hear John breathe. He watched him sleep for almost an hour before scribbling a note on a napkin and folding it in the only origami pattern he had memorized.  
  
  
  
John wasn't sure how much time had passed between falling asleep and waking up but he knew that it was night and that he was alone in his room. He turned his head to check the time and instead found a 3D paper heart sitting on the table beside him. His arms were more cooperative now and he was able to pick the little token up to look at it closer. Getting his fingers to work was a little more complicated but eventually he managed to get the thing unfolded. Inside he found three little words written in Sherlock's neat script.  
  
_I love you._  
  
With a smile he folded the napkin back up and slipped it under his pillow. It might not be Sherlock himself but it would be enough to keep the old soldier going until he could have him back.


End file.
